


Quintessential

by thesadchicken



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Cosmic thoughts, Existential mushiness, Fluff, I get emotional when I write about Qcard, M/M, Outer Space, Q Continuum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: “I want to show you something, Jean-Luc.”Picard needs to see. Q needs to be seen.
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard/Q
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	Quintessential

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend listening to [Time & Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7d2kBGeaysw) by Theodore Shapiro while reading this. Or any track from The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
> 
> Written for the Star Trek Bingo 2020 ♡

There was a vertical drop in the fabric of space, like a waterfall, and it was called the Universe, and time was slipping soundlessly over the edge. Rivers, streams, brooks—they looked and sounded like bodies of water, but were made out of stardust and other ruins. Vestiges of creation.

Jean-Luc Picard was standing in the middle of it all.

It had been a slow day. Nothing unusual or exceptional had happened, which in itself was rather unusual in Picard’s line of work. It had struck him as an odd choice; _why today, of all days?_ He knew better than to ask. It would be today. On this extraordinarily ordinary day. He wouldn’t demand an explanation, not this time; he was trying to be less stubborn. It was new to him.

He’d been in his ready room when Q had appeared with a familiar flash of white light. Picard had smiled, warmth spreading throughout his body. That too was new.

“I want to show you something, Jean-Luc.”

Picard had raised his eyebrows. There had been a PADD in his hands, but he’d let it fall to his desk with a thud. “What is it, Q?”

They’d been seeing each other for quite some time. It was a strange little thing, this arrangement of theirs. It had taken time to build, and effort, although Q would never admit it. For a while it had felt fragile beyond belief, too fragile to last, but somehow they’d held it together. Hand in hand, fingers entwined. Sometimes they’d find themselves tangled up in the stars, and they’d laugh, and they’d decide to do it again, another day, one more time, another stolen sliver of happiness.

It shouldn’t be surprising, then, that they had decided to make it last. Strange little thing indeed. A mistake they couldn’t stop making.

“Show me something?” Picard had blinked.

He’d felt stupid, repeating what Q had just said, but he hadn’t been able to hide his surprise. Q wanted to show him _everything_. That was why they’d agreed to take it slow. Picard wasn’t easily overwhelmed, but he was only human, after all. It had been one of the very first rules they’d set, and Q had never complained about it before—well, perhaps once or twice, teasingly.

“There’s something you need to know. About…” Q had hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek, “…about me.”

This too had been unexpected. The slight pause, the way Q had faltered—not the usual confidence. Oh, but Picard was excessively fond of the unusual. “Tell me,” he’d whispered, curious and only a little worried.

And so here he was, standing in the middle of it all. No explanations, no preambles, nothing of the sort. He was simply _here,_ in the middle of it all. Waterfalls, rivers, streams and brooks. Time and space. Remnants of something no one could quite recall.

“Q?” Picard called, looking up at the sky.

The sky. Pinpricks of light; so many of them, everywhere. Worlds and worlds, suns and moons and great big rocks floating about in space. Lives lost and lives found, old and new, long and short. Picard could almost touch them. If he stood on tip-toe, perhaps…

But his longing for the stars was an old friend, something he carried with him wherever he went. This couldn’t be it. There had to be something else.

“Where are you?” Picard called again, trying to distract himself from the fear coiling around his stomach.

It was quiet here. Q was never quiet. Floating alone in open space, Picard felt the click of his heart in his chest, like the ticking of a clock. _What is it that you’re trying to tell me?_

Q was good with words, except when it came to important things. It was something they had in common. So what was it this time? What was Picard supposed to understand? He looked up at the sky again, squinting.

There it was. A flicker of light, like the infamous flash that usually announced Q’s arrival. It was wedged between the stars, getting bigger by the second, until it became a small glowing ball. Picard leaned forward. His body was weightless, a speck of dust in the endlessness of the Universe. He was no longer afraid.

The ball of light blinked in and out of existence—like a playful wink. Picard raised his eyebrows. From the center of the ball came a tinkling sound. Laughter, perhaps.

And then the stars disappeared. Snuffed out of the sky. The river of time shivered and moved, curling around the ball of light. It spun around in circles, releasing whirlpools of stardust into the darkness. The Universe was a faraway thing. It looked like spider web, glistening with dew. Each drop was a world, a thousand, thousand lives. How fragile they looked, how accessible and yet out of reach.

Something like fire burned its way to the surface. Unquenchable thirst for _this_ , for stars and rivers and spider webs and dew drops, for the Universe itself, for this and this and _this_. How wondrous, how terrible, how beautiful it all was. _New eyes, I need new eyes to see it, to take it in. Lend me yours_. New eyes. They fluttered open.

There was impatience, there was curiosity, there was boredom and unspeakable loneliness. The ball of light had filled up the sky. Endless, unstoppable. Picard reached out to dab his fingers in it. He watched as rings of silver liquid sprang from his touch, extending unbrokenly. There was a vulnerability to it that left him feeling breathless. Something just beneath the surface was constantly in danger of breaking.

If it broke, the pieces would be safe, Picard knew this. He promised it, promised that he would hold them in the palm of his hand, keep a watchful gaze on them. He would protect them. 

The ball of light retracted in one swift movement. Out of the brightness emerged a figure. Picard recognized the silhouette, even as it walked out of the shadows, outlined against the empty Universe.

“Q…”

In human form, Q floated up to Picard, tilting his head to the side. There was an entirely alien gleam in his eyes. The stars reappeared, slowly, almost shyly.

“That was… you,” Picard breathed.

Q did not speak. He only smiled, tentatively. In moments like these, Picard could see right through his human shell. It was impossible to mistake Q for anything but what he was; almost as if his silence had painted him anew, shrouding him in this otherworldly glow. This was him, truly, the entity Picard had come to love. His otherness was louder now, clearer. And Picard loved him all the more for it.

Here, they stood facing each other. They looked into each other’s eyes. There was a question on the tip of Picard’s tongue, but he didn’t ask, didn’t dare. Q had just offered him something beyond words.

He brought his hand up, letting it rest against Q’s cheek, and Q turned his head slightly to place a kiss in the center of Picard’s palm. Such a human gesture, this quiet tenderness, and yet…

There were many things Picard would never understand about Q. It didn’t matter. This, right here, was what held them together. It wasn’t a mistake. It had never been a mistake. The Universe stared at them, a silent witness to their love.

“Thank you,” Picard whispered, overcome by an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

Q smiled again. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
